


Wazwan

by LuthienKenobi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dark Will, Gen, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, eventually, my take on a possible season 4, pre-Silence of the Lambs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-13 08:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11755983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuthienKenobi/pseuds/LuthienKenobi
Summary: After the fall, Will Graham wakes up in the hospital to find that Hannibal Lecter has fallen off the face of the earth and everyone seems to want the world to go back to normal. Unwilling to put Molly and Walter in danger, he moves back to Wolf Trap and takes up teaching again. The only thing that has truly changed, it seems, is himself.





	1. Tash-t-nari

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A meditation on past events, and a new beginning for all the players in this story.

_Blood shone black in the moonlight, an obsidian sheen that covered every inch of the patio. It sprang into life in great gouts from the body of the Dragon, poured out like an offering from his belly, from his throat, and from his legs. It spread itself reverently around his body until Francis Dolarhyde was transformed completely in a way he never could have been had his heart still been beating. The Great Red Dragon truly brought into form, whole and unfragmented._

_In death, he Became._

_Hannibal and Will had given of themselves as well, had poured themselves out on the sacred altar. Will could feel it pulsing, slower now, but still hot and alive from the side of his face and his shoulder. Hannibal had his own mark, blood seeping through gray cloth at a slow, steady pace that perfectly counterbalanced Will’s hot, heady throb._

_Under the light of the moon, the darkness offered up by the three men commingled on the stones, until it formed a single black pool, each man’s contribution entirely indistinguishable from that of the others._

_Will was aware of the whole world shifting on its axis. Or perhaps it had always been this way and he was only seeing it now. It was a plunge into freezing water, closing over his head and drowning him. He was overwhelmed completely._

_Lost at sea._

_He stuck out a hand to catch his bearings, and another grasped it firmly. Helped him to his feet and held him upright._

_Hannibal._

_Hannibal was solid, unchanging. An anchor to tie himself to when the entire world turned upside down. He was real, and Will clung to him._

_“See?”_

_He did see. He finally understood._

_“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.”_

_“It’s beautiful.”_

_And it was. Their shared design carved in flesh._

_A space of breath passed, but markings of time were lost in the intimacy of the moment. In the pure connection between the three of them._

_Between himself and the man on whose chest he now laid his head. Accepting and accepted in turn._

_Peace._

_And then, a decision._

_A final glance upwards before they hit the unforgiving surface of the water revealed stag and wendigo standing side by side, glinting black in the the moonlight._

* * *

Will woke still drowning. Harsh, inky black water surrounded, invaded, and consumed him. He felt the panic bubbling in his throat, but he couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.

Hands tried to grab at him, to hold him in place in the water and drown him at his own baptism. He fought them off on instinct alone, yanking one of the hands hard across his own body, until he heard a thump and felt the reverberation of a collision in the intruder’s hand. Another figure loomed over from his other side, the right side, and he swung his free hand at him, fingernails tearing skin and biting into soft flesh. If they were so intent on drowning him, they would learn that he would take a few of them with him too.

No, that wasn't it, that was all wrong. It wasn't water forced down his throat and and suffocating him, it was something different. Something hard and unyielding. An aftertaste. Plastic.

Another stomach-churning wave of fear seized him, this time dug up from the scar of an old wound and the memory of a betrayal. But where the first panic spurred him to fight for his life, this time he stilled under the invading touch. Let them maneuver his hands down and hold him there. Submitted.

They were speaking, but he found it hard to focus on the words.

“Oh god, Jess, are you okay?”

“I think we’re good, he’s calmed down now.”

“Give him a couple milligrams of midazolam, I don’t want a repeat performance.”

“Prepare to extubate.”

Will sank back into the darkness.

* * *

 The next time Will woke up, he was calmer and more aware of his surroundings. He was in a sterile, white and gray room, lying on a bed. The room held a sharp, medical smell, and he was aware of the sharp prick of an IV in his arm.

Someone was holding his hand.

“Hannibal?” His voice was rough and dry from disuse. He tried to focus on the figure sitting by the bed.

Not Hannibal.

Molly shook her head and squeezed his hand reassuringly, assuming the quiver in his voice was due to fear. “No one’s seen him since that night, and Agent Crawford says he’s probably left the country by now. He can’t hurt you, you’re safe here.”

Will huffed a breath and laid his head back on the pillow. “Safe.”

“You got away,” she insisted. “I don’t know how you did it, but you got away from both of them.” Her eyes narrowed. Confusion. “How did you do it?”

The corner of his mouth quirked in a tired half-smile. “That is a very long story. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but Jack’s waiting right outside that door to either yell at me or interrogate me. Probably both.”

She laughed at that. Just a little laugh, but she was already less tense. Less afraid.

“So,” he continued, “that story’s probably going to have to wait for another time. Sorry.” He disentangled his fingers from hers and moved to raise his hand to his face, but found that he couldn’t. A thick cloth strap—tight, though fairly comfortable when compared to other restraints he’d worn in the past—secured his wrist to the bed.

Now it was his turn to be confused, and more than a little worried. Will took a deep breath to calm himself and dispassionately noticed his guard snapping into place. He looked at Molly—really looked at her—for the first time.

She was concerned. Worried about him, maybe, that there would be complications and he wouldn't make it. That she and Wally would be left alone again. Worried that Hannibal Lecter was still out there in the world somewhere. But she wasn't afraid. Not of him, or she wouldn't have held his hand while he was sleeping. She still cared enough to be kind, and that meant that he wasn't under arrest and the FBI didn't know. Or at least that whatever lie they had told her was plausible enough to be the truth.

The door to the room opened. Apparently Jack had decided that was all the time that a wife needed to be alone with her recently-unconscious husband.

As always, Jack radiated authority. “I’m afraid he’s right, Molly. You two will have to finish this conversation some other time.”

It seemed that, among his many other excellent qualities, Jack was also an eavesdropper.

Molly nodded, tired, but she rose from the chair without complaint. “Yeah, of course. See you soon, Will.” She brushed her fingers affectionately over his hand, but didn't lean to kiss him.

As soon as the door closed and latched behind her, Will turned his full attention to Jack. He wished he could prop himself up against the pillows. Negotiations like these were always so much harder when the other person started out feeling like they had the physical advantage. He wanted to look Jack Crawford in the face, not stare up at him like some helpless victim.

“We need to talk, Will.”

“Hello to you too, Jack.” Will made no attempt to hide the sarcasm. He pulled on the straps, testing and calling attention to them. “Do I need to call my wife back here and tell her to get my lawyer on the phone?”

“You’re not under arrest, Will.”

The unspoken _but_ hung in the air between them. “Then why am I restrained?”

Jack sighed. “You panicked and got violent when you first woke up. Gave one of the nurses the scars to prove it. The doctors said it would be prudent to make sure you couldn't accidentally hurt anyone else, at least until we were sure you were fully in your right mind.”

“I’m perfectly lucid now, Jack.”

“I know.” Jack had the grace to look apologetic, though he didn't move to unbind him. “I need to ask you ask about that night. There’s some questions that we haven’t been able to answer.”

Will ignored the second part of that statement, and instead smiled weakly. “Are you afraid of me, Jack? Think that the moment you set me free I’ll cut a bloody swath through this hospital? That I’ll run right back into his arms?”

Jack’s silence spoke louder than anything he could have said.

Will huffed another laugh, but there was no real mirth in it. “The last time I saw Hannibal Lector, I tried to kill us both. If by some miracle he survived, I doubt he’d be very happy to see me.”

Jack’s voice was softer this time. Kinder. “Tell me what happened, Will.”

Will leveled him with a calm look. “If I’m not under arrest, you have no right to keep me restrained. If I am under arrest, then I’m under no obligation to tell you anything.”

Jack pursed his lips together, but Will knew this was a concession he would be willing to make. After a moment’s decision, Jack leaned down to unfasten the strap on Will’s left wrist.

Will felt the strap loosen and could suddenly see exactly what Jack was afraid of.

_He wrenched his wrist out of the strap, faster than expected, catching Jack off guard. He grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to where he had raised his knee to meet the larger man’s chest. Took advantage of Jack being momentarily stunned and reached to the table beside the bed. Fingers curled around a scalpel someone had carelessly left within his grasp. He buried the blade in the side of Jack’s neck, reopening an old wound long since scarred over and pearly white. Blood gushed over his hand and onto the bed, stark, unforgiving red on hospital white._

Will blinked, took an unsteady breath, and pushed the images from his mind. Forced himself to meet Jack’s eyes and smile gratefully as his left wrist was freed, and Jack walked around to the other side to free his right. Will pushed himself into a sitting position, absentmindedly rubbing his wrists. “Thanks.”

Jack nodded. This was a deal, not a courtesy, and they both knew it. “What do you remember?”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Six officers died when Dolarhyde attacked the convoy. They were good men. They had families. The plan was to contact him with a dead drop after we faked the escape, Will. How the hell did he know where and when the transfer was taking place?”

Will let a little more of his very real exhaustion seep into his features. This was the crucial moment that would shape the rest of the interview. He took his time—Jack would be just as suspicious of an answer too quickly given as he would be if Will didn’t have an answer at all.

“We always knew this was a long shot, Jack,” he said finally. “For all his delusions, Francis Dolarhyde was not an unintelligent man. It’s very likely that he had other contacts at the BSHCI, and one of them tipped him off about the transfer. So he took matters into his own hands.” He looked down. “I’m sorry about your officers.”

Jack sighed and sat down heavily in the chair by Will’s bed. He’d lost some of his commanding air. There was a vulnerability to his features, and Will knew that—for now, at least—he had said the right thing.

“The entire operation was a cluster-fuck,” Jack said finally. “I’ll be lucky if I get out of this with nothing more than a serious citation on my record.”

“There was nothing else you could've done, Jack,” Will insisted, gently. And there wasn't, not really. Jack hadn't known it, but it had been out of his hands as soon as he agreed to the plan. “At least we got Dolarhyde, in the end. He won't murder any more families.”

Jack nodded, but the mention of the Dragon seemed to bring him back to the point of the interview. “Tell me about that. What exactly happened out there?”

Will took another breath. “Well, Hannibal didn't kill me, for one.” Not that there was ever any real danger of that, but Jack didn't need to know how certain he was on that point. “And neither did Dolarhyde. Apparently we were too exposed on the road, and he waited until he could take his time with us. Wanted to be able to enjoy it.” He didn't have to fake his revulsion for the Dragon’s mindset. It wasn’t a pleasant mind to live in for any length of time.

He shook himself free before he fell too far into the Dragon’s mind again. Jack was patient and waited for him to be ready to continue.

When he spoke again, a Will was careful to keep his voice cool and detached. “Hannibal took us to one of his safe houses, one that he had purchased before leaving the country.”

“The house on the bluff.”

“Yes. He had kept Miriam Lass there. And Abigail.”

“Ah.” Jack looked away uncomfortably as guilt from his failures flooded him. He quickly returned the conversation to more relevant events. “And that’s where Dolarhyde found you?”

Will nodded. Here was another delicate area—after all, the Dragon had made a recording of the events, and it was difficult to be sure what exactly the camera had caught. Best to stick as close to the truth as possible. “He shot Hannibal in the side, through the window. Neither of us saw him coming until it was too late. Before I could reach for my gun, he was through the window, his gun trained on me. He warned me that if I ran, he would catch me. It wasn't until he had his camera set up and he was fully focused on Hannibal that I had the opportunity to reach for my gun.”

_Couldn't go through with it. Couldn't let anyone have the pleasure of killing Hannibal but me._

“He was faster. He saw me. Stabbed me.” Will rubbed the clean white bandage on his cheek. The wound underneath itched. “We were fighting for our lives after that.”

_He could see it behind his eyelids, replay every moment and feeling like a movie. A hard landing on the stone patio that jarred him to his core. The needle-sharp tear of his own flesh as he yanked the knife out of his cheek, followed only the slightest resistance as it sank home in the Dragon's leg. First blood. The Dragon roared, and another white-hot bolt of pain erupted in his shoulder, dragging upward, burning._

_Then the pressure on the knife was gone. The Dragon was distracted—a third predator had joined the fray._

_He was left alone now, but the Dragon had Hannibal. He was going to kill him, to absorb his power, and he didn't have the right. That wasn't what he deserved._

_A sharp tug at the knife freed another hot gout of blood, reminding him that he was alive. A moment later, he was on the beast, and he stabbed him once. Twice. Relished the sound of the blade piercing the flesh of an upstart animal._

_The Dragon threw him to the ground again, but he was weaker and no longer held the advantage. There were only two predators now, and they were circling their prey._

_They attacked the legs first, to bring him down. Blade buried in his thigh. Then Hannibal had jumped on the Dragon’s back, and he saw his opening. The knife sunk in deep, and he yanked hard. Blade sliced through, easy and quick as gutting a fish, and freed the blood from his body._

_The Dragon roared a final time. But only when he lay quiet and still, black blood spreading out in great wings, did he truly Become._

It was not without difficulty that Will wrenched his focus back to Jack. After the sublime beauty of that night, it was hard not to dwell. To replay it over and over.

Instead he didn't quite meet Jack’s eyes. Looked sheepish. Embarrassed. “I don’t remember much about the fight. All I know is, at the end of it, Dolarhyde was dead. Just like we wanted. Hannibal and I were at the edge of the cliff. I was more wounded than he was, and I knew I couldn't take him in fair fight.” He paused, waiting for Jack to fill in the rest.

Jack didn't disappoint. “So you grabbed him. Took both of you over the edge.”

Will nodded. “It was barely even a decision, really.” He looked up at Jack now, like a plea for absolution. “You, me, Alana, we decided that this was how it had to be. That he was too dangerous to be left alive.”

“We did.”

“It was the only way to be sure, Jack. He couldn't have survived. Nobody was supposed to survive.” Will paused, considering. “How did I survive?”

Jack looked relieved that the conversation had turned away from his own guilt again. “From what the doctors tell me, you almost didn't. Neither stab wound hit anything vital, thank god, but you had already lost a lot of blood before your little trust fall. If you had hit any rocks on the way down, we wouldn't even be having this conversation.”

“But I didn't,” Will said softly.

“No, you didn't. Broke a couple ribs just hitting the water, though. And you nearly drowned.”

“How did you find me?” Will thought he knew. The house on the bluff was isolated to the point of seclusion. If rescue teams had gotten there in enough time to save his life, then somebody had tipped them off.

“We got an anonymous tip. Shots fired.”

“Hannibal.” Will said the name softly, reverently. Tasting the shape of it in his mouth.

Jack nodded. “We think so, yes.”

Will dropped his eyes to stare at some distant point past the hospital walls. “Then the beast lives.”

* * *

 Jack Crawford returned home exhausted in body and soul.

The house was entirely silent and dark, yet for one bizarre moment he waited at the door, expecting to see the warm light at the top of the stairs flick on as soon as the latch clicked.

Bella would call his name, but if she was already in bed, she wouldn't come downstairs. He’d go up to her and sit by her on the bed, where she would probably be reading, maybe sipping a glass of wine.

He’d draw her into his lap and bury his face in her hair. “And how was your day, sweetheart?”

She’d laugh at that. She’d always found it amusing that, of the two of them, he was the hopeless romantic. “Better now that you’re finally home.”

She had a gentle sarcasm that never failed to make him smile. “I’m home now,” he’d reply. Then he’d turn her face toward him, and kiss her deeply.

Jack closed the door behind him, locked it, and hung up his hat and coat by memory without bothering to turn on the lights, just as he had every night for the past three years. Then he made his way to the kitchen, where he knew a half-empty bottle of scotch waited.

The silence was deafening, and he needed a drink.

* * *

 The next morning, Jack arrived at his office a little after seven o’clock, nearly an hour before anyone else usually showed up for work.

This had also become a custom of his in the years following Bella’s death. Even after returning from Italy, he found that he couldn't relax in their bedroom anymore--it was too full of the memories her. Bella sitting in the chair by the dresser, making notes in a file from work. Bella trying on dresses in front of the full length mirror on the closet door, carefully making sure that every detail of her outfit was in place. Bella lying on the bed, hair bound up and off her neck, every breath labored and harsh. Bella finally at peace, the morphine pulsing through her veins and enticing her to sleep.

On the days when he woke up before the dawn and Bella was too present in his mind to allow him to go back to sleep, he started simply getting ready for the day and going to work whenever he woke up. At the beginning, this was most days, and sometimes he would come in so early that he got to know both the night shift security guards and their morning replacements. He slept better now, but his early arrivals to work had become a habit.

This particular morning, he was sipping a cup of coffee and in the process of taking off his coat and hat when he noticed a file left for him on his desk. It was the analysis of the scene at the bluff house—either Price or Zeller must have worked late and finished it sometime the night.

For the most part, it matched what Will told him. Dolarhyde had shot Lecter from outside—the spent round had been lodged in the wall at the opposite side of the room. He had come inside after that and propped Lector up against the piano to get a better angle for filming. They had found bloody drag marks on the carpet where Dolarhyde had moved him.

He wondered briefly why Will hadn’t pulled his gun while Dolarhyde was moving Lecter. There would have been a small moment of opportunity there. He could have shot them both and they would be done with this whole mess.

Jack sighed. The fight had begun in earnest not long after Dolarhyde set up the camera. None of the men pulled any punches, and it was likely all over very quickly. Gallons of blood had been spilled at the scene, matched to all three men, though there was more from Dolarhyde. By the time they had arrived on the scene, there was more blood outside his body than there was left inside. Under the harsh lights in the crime scene photos, his body looked almost pure white, like he was only an empty shell with nothing left inside him at all.

The video footage was no help where the fight was concerned, as it had fallen over during the initial struggle. All it caught were some flashes of feet and Will’s bloodied face, once, as he was thrown to the ground on the patio outside. But Price and Zeller were the best at what they did, and they had managed to reconstruct a good portion of it from the forensic evidence. The knife that gutted Dolarhyde was found lying a few feet away from the body, and it only had two sets of fingerprints on it, Dolarhyde’s and Will’s. The cleaner cuts on Dolarhyde’s legs were made by a small axe that was lying nearby as well, and it only held Lecter’s prints. The bite mark also matched Hannibal’s dental records. Jack’s stomach roiled in distaste—the cannibal had torn out Dolarhyde’s throat with his teeth.

Most interesting of all, there were no signs of struggle at the cliff edge. Lecter had trusted Will enough to let him get close, close enough to touch him. Then Will had betrayed that trust by throwing them both over the edge.

Jack knew keenly what exactly Lecter had done last time he thought Will had betrayed him. He had heard it all through the pantry door while he was fighting to keep his own blood in his body. He remembered the sound of flesh tearing as Lector gutted Will with the linoleum knife, followed by Will’s desperate pleas as he cut Abigail Hobbs’ throat.

If Lecter was still alive—and the fact that they had yet to find a body seemed to say that he was—then there was a good chance he would be back to come after Will. Any peace that he felt, or wanted to feel, in this moment was entirely fabricated—a lie meant to lull him into complacency. But this wasn’t over yet. He was in the middle of the storm, surrounded on all sides by the towering winds of its eyewall.

Meteorologists had a habit of calling the strongest and most dangerous hurricanes beautiful. Only the category fours and fives, the ones which transcended their humble beginnings as simple low pressure systems and became something else, were ever described this way. And when he was very young and growing up in a small town near the Texas coast, Jack understood. These storms were massive, perfectly organized and symmetrical. They were also unstoppable forces of destruction and felt more like horror movie boogeymen than anything that actually existed in real life. You spoke about them in awed whispers, but never really thought could end up on your doorstep.

Jack was barely out of elementary school when he had learned that sometimes the storms of legend do come knocking. They lived far enough inland that they didn’t have to worry about the storm surge, so his parents decided not to evacuate—it would be easier to just board up the windows and hunker down for a couple days, they said. The storm would come through, wreak a little havoc, but then it would leave and everything would be fine. Jack still remembered sitting huddled in his bedroom in the pitch dark as the storm arrived, listening to the rhythmic bang of one of the makeshift plyboard shutters that had been partially torn away from the window. In between each hit, the sound of the wind alone was deafening, and he had been terrified that at any moment a tree would come crashing through the roof and kill them all.

But then at one point, it all just stopped. The wind, the rain, everything. And not gradually either, but suddenly and completely. Jack remembered running outside before his mother could stop him, and looking up to see a perfectly clear sky, faintly lit by the dawn. Then he looked around and realized where he was standing. The storm was only halfway done, and they’d have to endure it all again.

Nearly forty years later, he realized he was once again standing in the eye of the hurricane.

* * *

 The cellphone on the bedside table rang, and Alana Bloom woke on the first ring. She rolled her eyes when she saw the name on the caller ID—only Jack Crawford would think it was appropriate to call this early, even if he was running on East coast time. At her and her family’s safe house, the sun hadn’t even risen yet.

She angled her body away from the bed and kept her voice low as she answered, so as not to wake Margot. “This better be important, Jack.”

It was, and she was glad that she heard the news from him rather than a TattleCrime headline. But that didn’t stop the cold weight from settling in her stomach when she learned that Hannibal Lecter was free.

* * *

 Two days after Will had woken up in the hospital, he stood by his bed and changed into a pair of pants and a shirt that someone in the FBI had been kind enough to bring him from his bag at the motel. He was only mildly unsteady on his feet now, and the hospital had deemed him healthy enough for release. He felt vaguely like an injured animal being released back into the wild as soon as its keepers were relatively certain it could fend for itself.

The door opened to admit a nurse who started when she realized what she had walked in on and bolted out, moving to close the door behind her.

“No, it’s all right, you can come in. I’m done.”

She opened the door again. “I’m really sorry, I just need to take your vitals one last time. For the chart.”

“Yeah, of course.” Will sat down on the bed and motioned for her to come in.

She was afraid of him; it radiated off of her like a fever. She refused to meet his eyes and approached him like a deer might approach a wolf.

The part of Will that had been a dozen different killers—the part of Will that was Hannibal—enjoyed her fear and wanted to enforce it. Was curious to see how far he could push her. He pushed aside that instinct in favor of studying her more closely.

She was afraid because she knew who he was, certainly—she had read the papers, and every time she saw the name Will Graham it had been linked to the name Hannibal Lecter. But her fear went deeper than that, more personal. This was because of something he had done to her.

He scanned across her face, and his eye fell on the three thin red lines running across her cheek, neatly pinched together by lines of butterfly closures.

_Flesh tearing under his nails, sticky traces of blood on his fingertips and palm._

“It’s Jessica, right?” He spoke softly and leaned his head down to place himself more in her eye line, like he would to calm a particularly skittish dog.

She glanced up at him as she settled the blood pressure cuff around his arm. “How do you know my—”

He smiled, apologetic and disarming. “I heard the others call you that when I…” He grimaced and gestured to his own face in explanation. “For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry about that. I wasn’t myself.”

She shrugged, but her fear had lessened a little now. “Don’t worry about it. Most people are disoriented when they first wake up. You wouldn’t be the first person to get violent, either.”

Will nodded. “Still. I am sorry.”

She smiled briefly. “Thanks.” It was the last they spoke of it, and she finished her task quietly and efficiently.

When she was done, she was no longer afraid of him, but she was also more than happy to be allowed to leave.

Jack was his next visitor, and he certainly wasn’t afraid, at least not of Will. Jack was just as much a force of nature as Hannibal was, and Will couldn’t imagine the older man ever being afraid of him in the same way that the nurse had been.

Jack was also nothing if not direct. “So they’re letting you out, then?”

Will nodded. “That’s what they tell me, yeah.” The _and so are you_ was left unspoken, but he felt as they both acknowledged its presence, then let it lie.

“Given any thought to what you might do now?”

Will sighed. He had, actually. It had been practically all he had been thinking about for the past two days. “Well, I can’t go back home to Molly and Walter, not while he’s still out there.”

Jack nodded, understanding. “You think Lecter will go after them again.”

“If he thinks I’ve gone back to them, it’s practically a guarantee at some point. He’s jealous that way.”

“He went after them once before when you weren’t there.”

Will thought about this. “I think that as long as I’m not living with them, they’re safe. But you’re right, he has their address. I’ll tell Molly she should move as soon as possible. Maybe stay in a hotel until they find a new place.”

“What about you? You can’t just live out of motels until we catch up to him, it could be years.”

Will noticed the _we_ in that sentence, but didn’t comment on it. He knew he should be upset that Jack expected him to jump right back on the chasing-Hannibal-Lecter train, but was surprised to find that that he didn’t actually mind. In this particular instance, at least, Jack’s obsessive personality quirks were aligned with his own goals, so he was happy enough to indulge them. He nodded and stared intently off into the middle distance. “No, you’re right, he’ll go to ground this time. It could be a very long time before we even have any leads to chase.” He pulled himself out of his reverie and started collecting the few belongings he had with him in the hospital as he outlined his plan. “I thought I’d move back to Wolf Trap, actually. I still own the house there. Maybe take up teaching again, if the Academy will have me.”

Jack gave him a shrewd glance. “You know that’ll be the first place he looks for you, right?”

The corner of Will’s mouth twitched in a small smile, and he met Jack’s eyes with a determined look. “I know. I want want Hannibal to know exactly where I am, and where he can always find me.”

* * *

 The sun had already set when Will crossed the threshold of his little farmhouse in Wolf Trap for the first time in nearly three years. The entire time he was living with Molly he had never really considered selling it. At the time, he told himself that it was an unnecessary hassle, and they didn’t really need the money that selling it would make. More importantly, selling it would mean having to go back. And going back would mean being reminded of a lot of things that he would much rather forget.

After all, until the Dragon brought them back together, this was the last place that he had seen Hannibal.

Looking back on his actions now, he wondered if, deep down, a part of him had always known that he would up right back here.

They say a place never looks the same in the dark, no matter how familiar you are with it in the day. The shapes and angles may all be the same, and you may take the same paths to move in and through it, but it will always feel otherworldly. Like it’s part of a mirror realm that at first looks exactly like the place you’re used to seeing, but the longer you spend there, the more you realize just how fundamentally different it is from the world of the day. It has its own beauty, its own charms, and its own dangers. It operates entirely by its own set of rules and remains uninfluenced by anything that happens under the light of the sun.

Will had, of course, seen his own living room thousands of times before, both by day and by night. But at the same time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was stepping into another world, one simultaneously unfamiliar and intimately known. It was a clear night, and the moonlight streaming in from the windows and still open door cast strange, elongated shadows of the dust-cover clad furniture against the walls.

Will took a deep breath, stepped inside fully, and closed the door.

His first trip was to the kitchen, where he knew a nearly full bottle of whiskey was still sitting in one of the cabinets, waiting for him. He washed a glass, poured himself a drink, then took the drink back to the living room. After picking a chair, he pulled off its cover, leaving the clear plastic to pool on the floor by his feet. Then he set the glass down gently on the little table beside it, sat down, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, his cramped little living room was replaced by the open spaces and vertical lines of Hannibal’s office, and Hannibal himself was sitting across from him in his usual seat.

_Hannibal Lecter greeted him with a smile. “Hello, Will.”_

_“I don’t know what you’re so happy about,” Will said by way of greeting. “Last week I tried to kill you. Again.”_

_“And yourself as well.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And yet it appears that you have failed.”_

_“So it would seem.”_

_Hannibal looked at him in silence for a long moment, appraising. “You do not seem wholly upset to have been thwarted.”_

_“We should have died. The world would be a better place without us in it.”_

_“According to some, perhaps, those who subscribe to an arbitrary theory of morality.”_

_“All morality is arbitrary. It’s just that society tends to function better when the majority sets the rules.”_

_“Is that what you want, Will? To follow the rules?”_

_Will laughed at that. “What I want and what I need to do are two very different things.”_

_“What is it that you want?”_

_Will inhaled sharply and sat back. “What I want is to stay in that moment forever. It felt—” He trailed off, sinking into the memory._

_“What did it feel like?”_

_Will roused himself. “You know exactly what it felt like, because you felt the exact same thing that I did. But if I were to pick one emotion over everything else…” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Clarity. It was like before that I had been walking through life in a fog, but in that moment I understood everything perfectly. The world was so different than I had thought, and I could see it. I could see everything.”_

_Hannibal nodded. “Understanding can be a high more powerful than one created by any drug. Once we have tasted it, we will often continue to chase the thing that allowed us to see, in the hopes of being granted just one more glimpse into infinity. But you believe this conflicts with what you need to do?”_

_Will nodded, but didn’t answer._

_“The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep”_

_“And miles to go before I sleep.” Will completed the line. “Robert Frost.”_

_Hannibal nodded in approval. “It seems easier to stay in the woods, does it not? To lose yourself in the darkness?”_

_Will shook his head slowly. “I haven’t lost myself. If anything, I’ve found myself. I understand myself better than I ever did before. You saw to that.”_

_“You have Become.”_

_“Or at least I have begun to Become. I have no idea what I am going to be at the end; I only know that I cannot go back to who I was.”_

_“Nor do I. As I told you once before, I have no control over what emerges from the chrysalis. You are a creature entirely of your own making.”_

_“The architect of my own design.”_

_“As you say.” Hannibal smiled, and it was almost tender. “Does it frighten you, Will? That you do not know the shape of your masterpiece?”_

_Will paused for a moment, thinking. “It frightens me that it doesn’t frighten me. I know that I should be terrified of what I am. Of what we could be. But I’m not.” He laughed quietly. “Jack, Alana, everyone’s so eager to get back to the status quo. To forget this whole bloody business.”_

_“But not you.”_

_“Killing Francis Dolarhyde was the most free that I have felt in my entire life. It was simple, and it made sense. Normal, whatever that means, is far too complicated for my tastes.”_

_“You want to stay in the woods.”_

_Will didn’t answer right away, so Hannibal continued._

_“So what’s stopping you?”_

_“Like Robert Frost said, I have promises to keep.”_

_Hannibal cocked his head, curious, but stayed silent and waited for Will to complete the thought._

_“Years ago, I promised you a reckoning,” he said finally, no longer looking directly at Hannibal, but somewhere off in the distance behind him. “I suppose I just no longer know what form that reckoning is going to take.” He turned back to Hannibal. “What I do know is that I have to find you first.”_

_“Or perhaps I will find you. You’ve always been a good fisherman.”_

_Will smiled at that, a predator’s smile. “Caught you once.”_

_Hannibal inclined his head gracefully. “Indeed you did. But either way, it seems you have your work cut out for you. Miles to go before you sleep.”_

Will sat back, and the bright reds and greens of Hannibal’s office faded into the drab gray and beige of his own living room. He noticed the glass of whiskey on the table beside him where it had sat untouched on the table since he poured it, and he took a drink, savoring the familiar burn as he swallowed.

“Miles to go before I sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on references and title meanings:
> 
> Wazwan: A formal multi-course Kashmiri meal, usually served during weddings. Feel free to make of that what you will.
> 
> Tash-t-nari: A copper basin brought around to guests for ritual hand washing before the meal. This act has less to do with hygiene, and is more about cleansing the soul of impurities.
> 
> (Disclaimer: I am not Kashmiri, and I apologize in advance if any of my cultural references are inaccurate. Please feel free to correct me if they are!)
> 
> As far as I know, neither the books or show ever gave us Jack's background, so I made something up because Rule of Symbolism. The hurricane that Jack experienced as a kid was Hurricane Allen, which hit slammed into southern Texas and northern Mexico in August, 1980.
> 
> The poem that Will and Hannibal quote near the end is the final stanza from Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."
> 
> Next time: Alana schemes, Jack is up to his old tricks, and Will teaches his first class in years and meets a very determined young trainee.


	2. Seekh Kabab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which decisions are made, and people meet for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going the Ellen Page route for Clarice. Mostly for thematic reasons.

“One of the basic human drives is the desire to be social. Not with everyone and not all the time, of course. Introverts do exist, and I would know—I’m one of them.”

Scattered laughter rolled through the lecture hall.

“But socializing and being social are two very different beasts. There isn’t a single human being on this planet who, when it comes down to it, wants to be truly alone. Now, biologists will tell you that this is simply a quirk of evolution. That our brains are hardwired to seek out creatures similar to ourselves in an attempt to strengthen our own chance at survival—a pack mentality, if you will. But at least in us highly-evolved Homo sapiens, the drive goes far deeper than that. At our core, all of us have a desire to be understood. To be truly seen and to share with the person who sees us. Contrary to popular belief, this drive is not absent from the minds of serial killers and psychopaths. In fact, in some cases, they feel this even more strongly than you or I do. Francis Dolarhyde was one such case.”

The instructor paused to take a breath and most likely to fiddle with his presentation, which meant both that he wouldn’t be looking at the door, and that he would continue not looking at the door for at least a little while longer. Clarice Starling knew that this would be her best chance to make a discreet entrance.

Clarice was never late to class. She hated the idea of being late to class. Being late to class was just another thing that left a distinct impression in people’s minds about you, and a distinctly negative impression at that. And when it came to impressions, Clarice would rather either be seen for what she could do or not be seen at all. The last thing she needed was another person to look at her like she was brave for having come this far, but honestly, didn’t she realize that she wasn’t really cut out for this?

Scratch that, the last thing she needed was a man who was rumored to be good friends with Jack Crawford, the head of the department that she wanted to join after graduation, to look at her like that.

Ugh, damn it, she was hesitating too long. Just a few more seconds and he would start lecturing again, and she’d lose her window of opportunity.

_Now or never, Starling._

She was angry now—mostly at herself—but at least anger made her want to do things, and she realized she had already made her decision. She shifted her book bag to a single shoulder rather than two so that it would be less difficult to slip off when she sat down, and opened the door into the lecture hall as slowly and carefully as she could.

The creak of the hinges was one of the loudest noises she had heard in a long time, and the door must’ve been heavier than she had thought, because it closed with a dull thud, rather than silently. The instructor, however, didn’t seem to notice.

Thank god for small mercies.

Ardelia Mapp, her roommate and—as Ardelia put it once—the closest thing she’d ever had to a sister, had saved her a seat in the back row, and she slipped into it gratefully.

This was another thing she never did. Clarice, as a rule, hated sitting in the back of classrooms. There was just too much seperating you from the professor, too much to distract. She favored a close middle seat, usually something three or four rows back—close enough that the lecture held her full attention, but far enough away that she herself wasn’t anybody’s center of attention, and definitely not the first person that an instructor saw if one got it in their head to call on students in the middle of class.

Not that Clarice had any problem with contributing to classroom discussion, but she preferred to do it on her own terms and not be caught unawares. She liked the time to prepare and plan out what she wanted to say.

She wasn’t going to get called on in this class, though, she was almost certain. Will Graham was the sort of teacher who liked to stick strictly to lecturing and seemed to view classroom discussion as something of an oxymoron.

Clarice gathered her long brown hair into a side ponytail that hung low at the nape of her neck, pulling sweaty strands away from her skin. Then she took a deep breath, pulled out her laptop to take notes, and settled in for the rest of the lecture.

The lecture itself was fascinating, though not exactly filled with anything new, at least as far as the facts of the case were concerned. Ever since the Tooth Fairy case had been closed three months earlier, it was all that anybody in the Academy had wanted to talk about. Her forensics classes had picked over the minutiae of the crime so completely that the grisly crime scene photos currently projected on the screen felt more like a particularly morbid art installation than like anything real. Unpleasant to look at, to be sure, but sculpted with such care and full of so many meaningful details that it was easy to overlook the forest in favor of examining the trees.

So Clarice listened, and she took careful notes, but while she wrote down the facts and specifics of what Graham was saying, in her mind she found that she was analyzing the lecturer rather than the lecture.

When Clarice was very young and trying to make sense of the world after it turned upside down, she learned quickly that two people could take the same information and use it to say two very different things. Facts were just cold, impersonal things—it wasn’t until a living, breathing person tumbled them around in their mind for awhile and colored them with their memories, experiences, and emotions that they actually took on any meaning. So, to understand what any person really had to say, you had to get to know the person first and learn what made them unique from everybody else.

Will Graham was certainly unique. She’d thought that ever since classes started three months ago, though this was the first time she really had a chance to dig down and figure out why that was.

It wasn’t his appearance, she determined that right away. He looked like any other instructor, though one firmly on the academic side of the business rather than the practical. What he was wearing today was pretty standard fair for him, as far as she could tell: a dark colored sport coat and slacks over a collared shirt, tie, and sweater vest. Overall, the whole look was very put-together, and only the vaguely wild nature of his hair betrayed the fact that he might not really care too much about his appearance.

The content of his lectures, however, was much less common. No, not the content itself, she realized, but the way he presented the content. The way he related to it.

While at the Academy, and before that in her undergraduate courses, she had learned that people tended to use a variety of different strategies to distance themselves from horrific subjects such as the Dolarhyde murders. Some people approached them from behind an iron shell of humor, sure that if they maintained the integrity of their armor, the horrors could never truly touch them. Others came with a righteous fervor and a definitive and absolute view of world. Good was good and evil was evil, and it was their job as the representative of good to chase down the evil and destroy it. Some others, like Clarice herself, prefered to view them like abstract problems to be solved. A problem was not horrific or terrifying. It had no intrinsic values to be attached to it—it simply was. It made sense and you could wrap your brain around it, and it didn’t need to be anything more than that.

Graham, she realized suddenly, didn’t do any of those things. When he spoke about Dolarhyde, it was always with something that was almost respect. He never referred to him by the newspapers’ favorite moniker, the Tooth Fairy, but only as Francis Dolarhyde or by the man’s chosen name, the Great Red Dragon.

Everyone knew that Graham had been part of the team that finally brought Dolarhyde down, though the details of that night had been kept fairly quiet, even internally in the FBI. Clarice wondered if the respect was a result of having been directly involved in the man’s death. Maybe when you killed a person, even one like Francis Dolarhyde, you had to respect them or else risk seeing killing as something normal, and eventually becoming just like them.

As Graham warmed to his topic and started describing Dolarhyde’s mindset during the murders, she realized a second thing that was different about him. While other instructors droned on at length about a killer’s childhood and what they experienced that turned that person into a monster, Will Graham was interested in the person’s mind and motivations in the moment. He didn’t distance himself from the horrors or even describe them clinically, but instead dove in and felt them, describing them as intimately for his students as if he were describing a part of himself.

When he spoke about Francis Dolarhyde’s loneliness and his overwhelming need to be seen as he truly was, Clarice felt an answering pang of understanding. This was immediately followed by horror that she could share any emotions in common with a brutal serial killer, and she quickly shoved both feelings away.

She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t even notice that the lecture had ended until a sudden flurry of motion informed her that everyone around her was packing up and getting ready to leave. She packed up as well, though she didn’t turn towards the door with Ardelia once they got to the bottom of the steps.

“Aren’t you coming?” Ardelia sounded confused.

“No, not quite yet. I had a couple of questions I wanted to ask Mr. Graham.”

Ardelia gave her a disbelieving look, as if she couldn’t imagine anyone going to talk to him of their own free will, then shrugged. “All right, suit yourself. See you at dinner tonight?”

“What? Oh. Yeah, definitely.” Clarice knew she was distracted, but Ardelia, rock that she was, just rolled her eyes and took it stride.

“Whatever. See you then.”

“See you,” she responded out of habit, though Ardelia likely hadn’t even heard her. The other girl had been swept out of the door by the crowd of exiting students before Clarice could even get any words out.

Pausing at the foot of the steps, Clarice dug the papers she needed out of her bag, then stopped to consider one more time if she really needed to talk to him. Ardelia had a point, after all. Will Graham didn’t exactly have the reputation of being a pleasant person to talk to.

_Look Starling, it’s simple. You have a question, and you need it answered. Don’t overthink this._

Right.

She put a pleasant smile on her face and stepped forward to approach Will Graham.

* * *

 As soon as the lecture was over and class had been dismissed, Will released a deep, shuddering sigh and leaned heavily on the little podium that he taught from. Even months later, diving back into the mind of the Dragon exhausted him to his core and he could feel him scratching at the inside of his mind, roaring to be set free.

_Fear. Longing. Power. Hate. Francis Dolarhyde stood in front of him, great red wings unfurling from his back, stretched out in a display of his might. The Dragon advanced toward Will, head cocked to the side at an unnatural angle, wings reaching around to encompass him, and Will knew that he meant to enfold him into himself._

_At the last moment, he pulled up short with a wet gasp. Black blood ran like a waterfall down his body from a torn out throat and a great slice in his belly. Will held the knife buried deep in his flesh and felt the moment when all power left the Dragon’s body and he began to fall—_

“Mr. Graham?”

Will blinked. His hands were clean, and he didn’t feel the Dragon. He looked up in the direction of the voice.

_Abigail Hobbs stood in front of him. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail today, but she wasn’t wearing her scarf, and a slow, inevitable stream of blood drained from the thin slice in her neck. She smiled at him, and her smile was at once understanding and accepting. Proud, even. Home._

“Excuse me, Mr. Graham?”

The voice was decidedly not Abigail’s. It did belong to a woman—a young woman, even—but it was pitched lower than Abigail’s and lilted with a soft, Appalachian twang. Not heavy or drawling and obviously cultivated to be more acceptable in the city, but still very much present. The voice of a woman who wanted to leave her past behind her but found herself unable to abandon it entirely.

The image of Abigail disappeared, and he refocused his attention on the woman that wasn’t her. He recognized her as one of his students, though he couldn’t for the life of him recall her name. Not that he cared to. It had been months since Abigail had come to see him, and this woman had chased her away. He had a right to feel a bit angry about that.

“Yes? What is it?” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

She was briefly taken aback at his hostility, but managed to regain her composure within a few seconds. She took a step closer to him. “Mr.Graham, if you have a few minutes, I had a couple questions I’d like to ask you.”

He started packing his notes and papers into his briefcase. “If you’re here to get notes for the first part of the lecture, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find a sympathetic classmate. It’s hardly my fault you can’t make it to class on time.”

And there it was. Color flooded her face, and she didn’t come any closer. He allowed himself a little pleasure in being able to cause this reaction.

“I was training on the obstacle course, I didn’t have a watch—” The flush of embarrassment turned to anger, and her voice steadied. “I’m not here about the lecture, sir.”

“Well, if you’re hoping to learn the things I didn’t include in the lecture, like personal information about me or my dealings with Francis Dolarhyde and Hannibal Lecter, you’re going to be very disappointed.”

“I’m not interested learning about you, Mr. Graham.”

He snorted lightly and looked up at her. The small smirk of a private joke played at the corner of his mouth. “So you’re saying you don’t find me interesting?”

“I think you’re unique. I think you have an honest way of looking at killers that is entirely different from any other instructor here. And I certainly hope that I will find you interesting, because I’d hate to spend a year in the classroom of someone who bored me. But no sir, right now you’re not what I’m interested in.”

And damn, if her blunt anger wasn’t refreshing. Will smiled, and was surprised to discover that it was genuine. “What’s your name?”

“Starling, sir. Clarice Starling.”

He may not have recognized her, but he recognized her name. She was one of the few students whose work he actually looked forward to reading. “Right. Starling, Clarice M. Double major in psychology and criminology. You’re in the top quarter of the class.”

“I hope so. You haven’t posted anything.”

“You are. So, if you’re not interested in me, and you’re not interested my former associates, then what can I help you with?”

“I had some questions about my paper, sir. Specifically about some of the notes you made.” She handed the document in question out to him, neatly stapled in the corner. He saw his own handwriting in red on the cover sheet.

He paged through the report, skimming both what she had written and the notes he had made just a week or so earlier. “You know, I may have given you a B, but this was still one of the best papers in the class.”

She was angry again. Thought he was being dismissive and condescending. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t care about the other papers. I had a question about mine.” Rather than waiting for him to reply, she pointed out a section near the end of the report. “Here. You made a note that my knowledge of the criminal mind was overly simplistic? I was hoping you could explain that.”

It was interesting: she was angry, but not about the criticism. Her teacher had noted a point that she could improve, and she wanted to learn and correct her mistake. She was angry because she believed he was underestimating her and not taking her seriously.

Hannibal would have grabbed hold of that particular insight and tugged and teased until he learned exactly where those insecurities came from. Pulled at them by the stalks until he could see their roots.

Will turned his attention to the passage in question. “Actually, using the phrase ‘the criminal mind’ is an oversimplification in and of itself. This is a good start, but you’re operating under the assumption that the mind of a killer and that of a so-called normal human being are entirely distinct and different from each other.’

“Normal human beings don’t possess a pathological need to kill.”

“Neither do all killers. Some do it just because they can. Because it’s fun, or it makes them feel powerful. Or because it’s a means to some other end.”

“So you’re saying that killers inherently possess the exact same desires and drives that we do, the only difference is in how they choose to resolve them?”

“The only difference is that they don’t see killing—or at least, killing specific types of people—as taboo. They simply have more options available to them.”

“Why? Why do they see killing as a viable solution?”

Will chuckled. “There are as many different answers to that as there are killers.”

“But it’s important!” Her voice rose with the insistence. “As long as murder is on the table as a solution to their problems, serial killers aren’t going to stop by themselves. They’ll keep right on killing people, and that means it’s up to us to catch them. To do that, we have to predict them, right? And to predict what anybody is going to do, you have to understand them first. That’s why you do what you do, why your way of looking at things is so unusual ”

Will felt like the air had been knocked out of him, just for a second. In the years he worked with the FBI, he’d known people who spent their entire lives chasing killers, yet somehow didn’t grasp the importance of understanding them, let alone the fact that Will did exactly that every time that he looked at a crime scene. Then along came this trainee who had never even worked in law enforcement, and all of a sudden, she just got it. She understood.

He caught his breath. “Yes, exactly.” He realized suddenly that he was just standing there and staring at her, still holding the paper. He turned it back to the front page and handed it back to her.

She took it, slipping the document into a folder in her backpack. “That actually cleared things up a lot, thank you.”

“Anytime,” he assured her. “I mean it. And I’m sorry about earlier—I know I was brusque with you, at the beginning.”

She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. If anything, I should be apologizing to you.”

Will didn’t say anything, but he must have had a question in his eyes, because she continued.

“The Dolarhyde case was the first case you had handled in years. I know it’s not my place to know the details, but it couldn’t have been easy on you. And that means just revisiting it for the class must’ve been it’s own little slice of hell.” There was no overblown pity in her voice, just a statement of fact. “I shouldn’t have ambushed you like that.”

His breath hitched in his throat again. It had been a lifetime ago since anyone had understand him like that. He recovered more quickly this time and a half-smile played at his lips. “Well, you definitely wouldn’t be the first, and in all likelihood you won’t be the last. I’m an old hand at getting ambushed.”

She grinned at him. “Still. I’ll make my best effort not to do it again.”

Will wasn’t sure whether the intrigued playfulness that he was feeling was coming from her or if it was entirely his own, but he grinned back, nearly laughing. “Where would be the fun in that?”

* * *

 By the time Clarice jogged to the cafeteria and slid into the seat across from Ardelia with a tray of food, the other girl was nearly halfway done eating.

Ardelia looked up briefly, but didn’t stop eating. Clarice knew from experience that it was a bad idea to get between her and food, so she didn’t press the issue, and instead dug in herself. Dinner actually wasn’t half bad today, she noted: Salisbury steak with a brown gravy, mashed potatoes, and peas. The Salisbury steak was the fake kind, made out of a repurposed hamburger patty, but the gravy was good, and at any rate Clarice wasn’t a very picky eater. Taste was all very well and good, but at the end of the day food was food. As long as it filled her up and provided her with the proper nutrition, at the end of the day she found she didn’t much care what it was.

“Took you long enough,” Ardelia commented finally, as she chased the final few peas around her plate.

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

Ardelia was incredulous. “Sorry about that? Most people who venture into the lair of Mr. Three-fries-short-of-a-Happy-Meal get kicked out in, like, a minute. Tops.”

Clarice just shrugged and grunted noncommittally around her mouthful of food. Will Graham was obviously a very private person, and she suddenly found herself unwilling to talk about him to someone who didn’t already understand him.

Her reticence was not playing well with Ardelia, who only seemed more intrigued and pointed at her with her spoon. “Nuh-uh, you don’t get to get away with that today. You’re the first person in probably the history of ever to have more than a two minute conversation with the guy. So, tell me about how it went with you and Professor Psycho.”

All of a sudden, Clarice was feeling very defensive. “First of all, you shouldn’t call him that. He’s not a psycho.”

To her credit, Ardelia winced and had the grace to look sufficiently chastised. “No, you’re right, I’m sorry. I am curious though. What did you guys even talk about for that long?”

Now that Graham was no longer being directly attacked, Clarice relaxed a little. “Well, first he basically accused me of trying to weasel gossip fuel out of him.”

“What the hell?” Ardelia was obviously trying not to laugh, but wasn’t having a lot of success. “He’s a teacher, doesn’t he expect that people are eventually going to want to ask him questions?”

Clarice shook her head. “No, it wasn’t like that. Honestly, it was partially my fault. He wasn’t exactly having the best of days, and I think I caught him a bit off guard. And--” She took a moment to search for the best words. “He’s pretty paranoid. Dealing with trauma, too, I’d bet. He’s suspicious of people he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t trust easy.”

“Well, if the rumors about him are even half true, then he has good reason not to.”

Clarice nodded. “Yeah.” She pulled her thoughts away from Graham’s possible past and back to the man himself. “To be perfectly honest with you, I think he’s a genius. Most of what we talked about was just profiling 101, but he has this way of understanding killers that’s unlike any other teacher I’ve ever had. He’s not just profiling them, it’s like he’s literally getting inside their heads.” She took another bite of the gravy-smothered hamburger as she considered the implications of this. “You know, if everyone could learn to do what he does, there’d be a lot more serial killers behind bars.”

Ardelia looked unconvinced. “I don’t know. If he really does get inside their heads, then it sounds to me like learning to do what he does might just turn a lot more people into killers.”

Clarice didn’t have a good answer for this. The statement didn’t automatically ring true, but she slowly realized that it also didn’t feel completely false. “I hope you’re wrong,” she said, finally.

Ardelia snorted as she popped the last few recaptured peas into her mouth. “Yeah, you and me both.”

* * *

  _Alana woke to a feeling of dread building in the pit of her stomach. Not all of a sudden, but gradually. Crawling across her gut and up her spine, as the darkness closed in around her, like a living thing. Suffocating her._

_It was irrational, she knew it was irrational. They had an army of private security inside and outside the compound. Everything was fine. She shut her eyes and tried to breathe through it. Tried to push away the fear, but it just kept building and building and finally she couldn’t stand it any longer, so she flung out an arm to shake Margot awake._

_Margot never woke up from her nightmares. She slept like the dead._

_Cold like the dead._

_Dread climbed higher and higher until it reached a fever pitch, a scream that she could hear inside her head. She tugged on Margot’s arm and rolled her wife towards her._

_Margot was more blood than body, painstakingly decorated in red. A deep cut in her neck matched by gashes across her chest and belly. Slices down each arm._

_Alana’s voice might have joined the screams in her head, but she couldn’t tell. Everything around her was pulsing noise._

_She ran blindly, and the walls of their mansion-hideout-tomb seemed to close in on her. One left. Up the stairs. A right. Second door on the right._

_She had to get Morgan. She had to get out._

_A quick twist and she flung open the door, only to be pushed back by a blast of heat. Flames crawled up the walls and rushed towards her, consuming everything in their path._

_She turned and ran back into the darkness, and time seemed to stop and fill itself with her running, fire and blood and death nipping at her heels._

_She only stopped when she slammed into something solid and unyielding. A person. She grabbed at his clothes, but ash crumbled in her hands. She couldn’t see his face._

_She tried to fight, hands scrabbling for purchase, but nothing worked, she couldn’t get free. She could never get free. Strong hands caressed her face, and a voice that she knew from tender whispers in her ear soothed her. Unnatural calm orbited by chaos._

_“Hush now, Alana, hush. It’s all over. Know that there is nothing you could have done to prevent this, and take comfort in embracing the inevitable. I promised you, Alana. And I always keep my promises.”_

_The hot iron brand of a knife drew across her neck_

* * *

 Alana woke up abruptly, breathing hard, but she forced herself to be still. She covered her mouth to muffle the sound, then realized that she was biting down on her hand to stifle sobs. She tentatively reached out to Margot with her other hand and almost cried out in relief when she was warm, her chest rising and falling with even, soft breaths.

After a few deep, grounding breaths, she eased out of bed, careful not to disturb Margot. She had to go look in on Morgan, but it was was just a nightmare, and it wasn’t fair to make her wife lose sleep over this, as well. The house was cold, so she pulled a soft red robe on over her nightgown and slipped quietly out of the room.

The route to her son’s room was the same as it had been in the dream, and she felt an echo of that same fear as she opened the door. Not a fevered screaming, this time, but low and dull. An inescapable ache churning in her core.

She opened the door carefully so that it wouldn’t squeak on its hinges, and was so relieved to feel the tension leave her when she saw that it was dark that she almost laughed out loud. She suppressed that urge, though, and instead stepped to her son’s bedside.

Illuminated faintly by the dim light from the hallway, Morgan looked peaceful. She felt a fierce, protective love surge up in her, for a second almost fully displacing the fear. A few strands of Morgan’s fine, light brown hair fell into his eyes, and she brushed it away, taking a moment to run her fingers through it. She needed to know that he was alive.

“Mommy?”

She hadn’t meant to wake him, but she was so happy to hear his voice that she couldn’t bring herself to feel very much guilt. “Hey, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You can go back to sleep. Mommy just had a bad dream.”

“Not sleepy,” Morgan insisted, then immediately countered his own claim by rubbing petulantly at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Alana grinned. “Oh, well, if you’re not sleepy, then that’s a different story.” She joined her son on the bed and pulled him in towards her when he scooted close. She wondered idly how much longer it would be before he was too big for her to hold, and she wrapped her arms around him just a little tighter, settling back against the headboard.

“Did you dream about the monsters, Mommy?”

Back when Alana was the administrative head at the BSHCI, Margot had told him that his mommy worked at a big fortress and that her job was to guard the monsters so that they couldn’t get out and hurt anyone. So, technically, Morgan was correct. She considered lying, but it would set a bad precedent, and the last thing she wanted was for Morgan to hide his bad dreams from her if he needed to talk about them. “Yes, baby, I did.”

He craned his head up to look at her. “What happened?”

Alana took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled Morgan closer. “One of the monsters got out,” she explained simply. “He was angry at me for locking him up, so he came here. He killed you and your mama, and then he killed me.”

“Oh.” Morgan’s voice was small, and she kissed the top of his head.

“It was just a dream,” she reassured him gently. “Everybody gets bad dreams, sometimes. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Morgan was silent for a long time after that, and Alana wondered if he had fallen asleep. By the time he spoke again, she was almost half asleep herself.

“Promise?”

She yawned. “Promise what, baby?”

“Promise you won’t let the monsters get me and mama?”

Oh. God. Her dream had bothered him, and her first response was to comfort—to offer platitudes and reassurances to calm him and rock him back to sleep with her words. But at the same time, she understood that this moment was important. Any promise that she made now—even in the middle of the night with only her 3-year-old son as a witness—she knew she would keep it or die trying.

She made a decision.

“I promise, Morgan. Mommy won’t let the monsters get anywhere near you.”

“Or to Mama?”

“Or to your mama.”

Morgan seemed less worried, but he still wasn’t satisfied. “But what if the monsters want to kill and eat us? Like Hansel and Gretel?”

Inwardly, Alana cursed children’s stories that were just as brutal as the real world. Or perhaps the issue was that the real world was just as brutal as the fairy tales. It didn’t matter in the end. The real world existed, and all anyone could do was figure out what they had to do to live in it.

“Mommy?”

Alana roused herself from her thoughts, and when she responded, her voice was calm. “Then I’ll kill the monsters before they can get anywhere near you. Okay?”

Satisfied, Morgan snuggled in closer and buried his face in the crook of her arm. “Okay.”

They both fell asleep like that, and Alana didn’t wake up again until morning.

* * *

 In the weeks following his first conversation with Clarice Starling, Will found that he had started to change his classroom routine. Where he used to lecture straight through for the entire hour, he now asked open ended questions. While he still didn’t encourage discussion, he also no longer actively discouraged it. This wasn’t a plan or a conscious decision—he simply found himself very interested in hearing more of Clarice’s insights, and he was willing to give her the opportunity to share them.

He never called on her directly, though. This was partially due to the fact that he was unwilling to betray just how interesting he found her, but mostly because he knew she wouldn’t appreciate being put on the spot.

Clarice Starling was a woman who curated her image carefully. She had an intimate understanding of the damage caused by being underestimated or misunderstood, so she had decided at an early age that the best remedy was to simply be in control at all times. Don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Don’t speak unless you know what you’re going to say and how it will be perceived. Be seen as competent or don’t be seen at all. Don’t open up, it’s safer inside.

Calling her out directly—demanding her insights like they were something he was owed—would only make her shy away and retreat back behind her well-fortified walls. Instead, he dangled questions like carefully crafted lures, each component chosen and added so precisely that he knew exactly what would bite before he ever cast his rod.

He tapped a button on his laptop, and an image of Randall Tier’s monument filled the projector screen. He allowed a wave of reverence to wash over him at the memory, then refocused himself on his students. He clicked through a few more of the crime scene photos in silence, giving the students time to study the images.

“These are pictures from the scene of an unsolved murder about four years ago,” he explained finally, after showing all the photographs. “This was the first murder of its kind, and we never found a similar one afterwards. That doesn’t mean that the killer never killed again, of course—just that he never did it in exactly the same way. However, without any other murders to connect to this one, this is the only evidence we have to teach us about our killer. If any of you have taken art appreciation courses in the past, you know that studying the artwork is key if we want to understand the artist who created it. So, what does this… work of art, for lack of a better word, tell you about our killer?”

A hand shot up. Not Clarice, but Will didn’t expect it be. He called on them anyways. “Yes, go ahead.”

The trainee in question was a confident young man who believed himself smarter than most of the other people in the room. Will remembered him as the kid who had tried to haggle for a higher grade after the first exam. “He was angry at him. This guy had done something to offend him, so he literally put him on display. Showed everyone what he really thought about him.”

“Why do you say that?” Christ, he was starting to sound like Hannibal. This was why he preferred straight lectures.

Overconfident trainee kid acted like the answer should be obvious. “I mean, just look at the way he tore into him! Those aren’t clean, careful cuts. And the way he displayed him, on an animal skeleton like that? He’s saying that’s how he thought about him. Dude was just an animal to him.”

Will realized that he was less offended by his motives being misunderstood than he was by the kid’s dismissive attitude towards Tier. Randall Tier’s death was necessary. It may have even been inevitable. But that didn’t mean that Tier himself wasn’t important, or that his death was any less of a sacrifice.

Clarice’s voice broke in, then, and she seemed to echo his own thoughts. “That ‘dude’ had a name, you know.”

She was speaking to the other trainee, not to the class as a whole, but this was the opening Will had been looking for. He tugged gently on the line, drawing her attention to his lure. To the pieces of Tier’s flesh tied carefully on the skeleton like bits of feathers and fur on a fishhook. “Did you have any ideas, Miss Starling?”

Clarice was taken off-guard, but she didn’t take the opportunity to retreat that he had provided. “Actually, sir, I was wondering what we knew about the victim.”

“That’s a good question.” Will clicked through to the next slide to show a picture of Tier’s driver’s license, as well as photos from the scenes of Tier’s own murders. “The victim’s name was Randall Tier. He worked at the same hospital where his body was displayed, and he was a person of interest in another set of murders where three different people were torn limb from limb using—at least in part—the skull and jaws of an extinct cave bear.”

A third student broke in. “So the killer was a vigilante?”

Will shook his head. “Be careful about trying to assign motive before we have a pattern to track. Rather than focusing on why he did it, what does the manner in which he chose to display Tier’s body tell you about the killer himself?” He paged back to the photos of Tier’s remains.

Clarice raised her hand.

“Yes?”

She considered the picture one more time before responding. “Whatever his motive for the murder,” she said finally, “I don’t think he hated Tier. If Tier did commit those murders, then he was a deeply disturbed man who identified with animals enough that he felt compelled to kill like them. Assuming the killer knew what Tier had done, displaying his body on the skeleton wouldn’t be a very effective way to mock him.” She paused, and Will watched as something clicked in her mind. “What if our mystery killer understood him, and this was his way of giving Tier what he wanted most? His way of honoring him.”

Will nodded, once again briefly dazed. She couldn’t see it all, but at the very least he had not been disappointed. “Very good. That’s actually what I thought, too, at the time.”

“If I may ask, sir, what happened? With the case.”

“There was no other evidence. The killer never killed in the same way again, and eventually the case went cold.”

Clarice thought about this. “So, he’s still out there, somewhere.”

“Well, we can’t discount the possibility of death by natural causes or another killer murdering him in turn—serial murder can definitely be considered a risky lifestyle.” This drew a laugh from the class. “But in all likelihood? Yes, I believe he probably is.”

Once again, the moment suspended itself in time, drawing itself out until it encompassed the whole of reality. Time and activity passed around them, but only he, Clarice, and his monument truly existed. They were solid and real, and everyone else passed by them in the faint flickering of shadows.

As quickly as it expanded, the moment returned to its standard size, and Will realized that the clock must have struck the hour. Nearly half of his students had already packed up and left, and the rest were preparing to join them. Clarice, however, had a question behind her eyes, so he wasn’t surprised when she approached him rather than leaving with her classmates. His lure fascinated her, and she circled it slowly in her mind.

He left the presentation running.

She gestured to the image. “The person who did this… Why do you call him a serial killer?”

He glanced up at her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, serial killing is defined as ‘a series of two or more murders, committed as separate events, usually, but not always, by one offender acting alone.’” This was a direct recital from the FBI handbook. “If this is the only murder we can link to this particular killer, how do you know for sure that it’s not an isolated event?”

Will considered his answer carefully before replying. “We can’t know for sure, I suppose. Not with the available evidence.”

“But you sound pretty confident.”

He turned the question back to her. “What do you think? Was the the killer satisfied once Randall Tier was dead and his sacrifice honored? Was his design complete?”

“Sacrifice to what?”

The door to his classroom opened again, and Will remembered himself. He cleared his throat and broke eye contact, closing out the presentation and starting to pack up his computer. “Well. That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Judging by Jack Crawford’s voice echoing through the now-empty lecture hall, he didn’t close it quite fast enough. “Lecturing on cold cases now, Will?” His voice held a note of accusation.

Will supposed that was his right. After all, Jack knew exactly who had killed Tier and so carefully mounted his remains. They had never discussed it explicitly, of course, but Jack was smart. He knew enough not to ask questions and to let the investigation quietly drop and fade into the background.

What Jack didn’t know was that he also knew the taste of Tier’s flesh. That he could vividly remember the feeling of knife sliding through lean muscle in Hannibal’s kitchen as he helped prepare the feast.

It wasn’t something he had been compelled to do—not even anything he had truly wanted to do. Bringing Hannibal the meat had simply been the best way to prove that his allegiances were no longer conflicted, and therefore was a necessary move in the game. The entire drive to Baltimore that night, he had expected to feel revulsion and was prepared to hide his distaste. Once they began preparing the meal, however, he found himself lost in the ritual of it. They may not have been feasting on Freddie Lounds, but the meat was still taken from someone who had died at Will’s hands.

Hannibal may have considered the guests that graced his table to be little better than pigs, but Will was not Hannibal. He had seen Randall Tier and understood him, and he realized that he could honor him with the meal. The display had been a public monument, but this was a final, private ceremony. If he was in any way inclined toward spirituality, he might even call it sacred.

But pretentious religious metaphors had always been Hannibal’s forte, rather than his own. And besides, it wouldn’t do to become too lost in the past. Not when there was so much that needed to be done in the present.

He turned his attention back to Jack, making eye contact in an unspoken challenge. “A killing like that, with the victim displayed in such a memorable fashion, and yet we never see a similar death again? It definitely makes for an interesting case study.”

Jack didn’t break eye contact. “Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll even catch him.”

Will smiled. “Yeah. Who knows?” He clicked the laptop closed and slipped it into its case. “So what’s so important that you couldn’t call me on the phone, Jack?”

Jack walked up to the podium and handed him a folder. “We’ve got something I’d like you to look into. Two people murdered each time, always drugged, then both impaled on the same spears. It’s been in a different location each time, but we just clocked our third in Tennessee. The plane leaves in three hours, and I’d like you on it with me. And I did try to call you, multiple times. You’ve been ignoring me.”

As he took the folder, Will noticed it was fairly thin. Apparently there wasn’t a lot to go on yet on this particular case. He glanced at the photos briefly, but didn’t dive into them. There would be plenty of time for that later if he decided to go along with this.

“Any organs missing?”

“No.”

Will nodded. He had expected that. If it was Hannibal, Jack would never have wasted time trying to call him and would have simply come to see him immediately. “This wasn’t our agreement, Jack. I said that I would help you find Hannibal, and I agreed to be bait for him. I never said I would come back to work for you in any other capacity.”

“Will, I need you on this one. We need to catch this guy before he kills again, and you know you’re the best shot I have at doing that.

Will leaned back against the podium, considering. He had no desire to lose himself inside another killer’s head, but at the same time he couldn’t help but see an opportunity here. “Okay, I’ll do it,” he said, finally. “But I have one condition.”

Relief flooded Jack’s face. “Sure, name it.”

“Clarice Starling comes with us.”

For a moment, Jack was speechless. In the back of the lecture hall, where the trainee in question had been standing awkwardly and wondering if she could slip out of the room without drawing attention to herself, Clarice froze in place.

Jack turned in the direction that Will was nodding and seemed to notice Clarice for the first time. “Her? Will, this is highly irregular.”

“Jack, neither of us are exactly strangers to the irregular,” he reminded him softly. “Comparatively, this might actually be the easiest to explain. She’s got good instincts, she’s trained in both forensics and psychology. And besides, the team’s been short-handed for awhile now. I’m sure you could use the help.”

“That’s not the point, she’s not cleared for any of this. Hell, she shouldn’t even be here right now!”

Will kept his voice even. “You can have her issued a gun and secure the necessary credentials for her while we’re on the plane. Those are my conditions, Jack. Take them or leave them.”

Jack sighed, and Will knew that he had won. He turned to Clarice. “Starling, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t force you to do this. But it would be a big help to all of us if you’d agree to come along. What do you say?”

Clarice looked dazed, like she didn’t truly believe that this was happening. “Yes, sir, absolutely. I won’t let you down.”

Jack nodded. “Good. Go sign out a gun and pack up. I’ll expect to see both of you at Andrews Air Force Base ready to go in exactly three hours. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Will nodded his agreement with Clarice. “We’ll be there.”

“All right.” With that, Jack left. Clarice followed soon after, still in a daze.

Will finished packing, this time with a little more gusto than when he had left off. It had been a long time since he’d had anything to look forward to.

* * *

 Alana and Margot spent the days following Alana’s nightmare carefully rebuilding Mason’s information network from the ground up. It proved to be difficult work—much of the structure was still there, but a lot of the contacts were Mason’s alone, and they refused to trust either of the women. As a result, Alana spent a fair amount of her time and money cultivating assets that Mason never had access to, for one reason or another.

This particular afternoon, she and Margot had decided to make a call to one such asset.

Even being the student of human nature that she was, she had no idea how this particular conversation was going to go.

A click on the other end of the line informed her that the call had been picked up.

“Dr. Bedelia du Maurier?”

“Dr. Bloom.” The voice on the other end of the line was low and thoughtful. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to hear from you.”

“So you’ve heard, then?” Alana tried to keep the question casual, but she could hear the suspicion in her own voice. “I thought most of the news outlets were still reporting that he died the same night as the Tooth Fairy.”

“I’m not back with him, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I’m simply very good at reading between the lines.” She paused, and there was a sound like she was taking a drink. “Hannibal Lecter is free, and he walks the earth, seeking whom he may devour.”

Alana felt Margot take her hand, and she squeezed it gratefully. Her mouth was dry, and she was relieved when her wife took over the conversation.

“Hannibal Lecter’s not the devil,” Margot replied, shortly. “He’s just a man. And men die.”

Dr. du Maurier inhaled sharply. “Three years ago, the two of you were willing to face the wrath of Mason Verger, a man who fed people he didn’t like to his pigs, just to make sure that Hannibal wasn’t killed because of some vendetta. I must admit, I’m curious to know what changed your mind.”

Alana found her voice. “My priorities have changed, Dr. du Maurier. I have a family to protect now, and--” She took a deep breath, committing. “And I don’t think we can ever feel safe again until Hannibal’s out of the picture for good.”

There was no sympathy from the other end of the line. “Your family is perfectly safe as long as they’re far away from you. As far as I’m aware, he has nothing against Margot or your son. He spoke about you, though. You’re on the menu.”

“He talked about you, too, and we’re both on the chopping block. I doubt that you would survive another encounter with him, either.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Alana hoped that this meant the other woman was coming to a decision. By all accounts, Bedelia du Maurier was both intelligent and highly independent. Her main motivation these days seemed to be self-preservation, so in order to agree to work with her, she needed to be just as scared of the idea of Hannibal’s freedom as she was of the consequences of working against him. She was wary, though, and if at any point she thought she was being manipulated or played, Alana had no doubt that she would cut ties and disappear. Maybe even sell them out in an attempt to save her own skin.

She was also one of only two people in the world who had any real insight into the mind of Hannibal Lecter, and that would be invaluable in the coming months. So Alana waited.

Eventually, Dr. du Maurier began to speak again. She pronounced each word slowly and deliberately, as if she was always searching to find the exact word to articulate what she wanted to say. “Are you familiar with the legends about ghouls?”

Alana wondered where this was going, but she was willing to play along. “They’re monsters, aren’t they? The kind that haunt graveyards and eat corpses.”

“In Arabic mythology, the ghūl is a type of jinn. It is a spirit born of smokeless fire and sired by the Devil himself. It disguises itself as a human, and its entire purpose in life is to deceive and consume. According to legend, the ghūl can only be killed if it is struck a single, devastating blow.”

“Strike at its heart.”

“Precisely. I think that I just might be able to help you, Dr. Bloom.”

“How?”

There was another pause, as the older woman collected herself. Her next words were low and practically whispered, barely audible through the phone’s speaker.

“I know where Hannibal Lecter’s heart is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seekh Kabab: Minced meat roasted on skewers over hot coals. They are divided in half, and each kabab is eaten by two people.
> 
> Next time: Murder most foul!


End file.
